There are few who have not heard something of the sufferings of a siege.  Whether within or without, it is the most terrible of all the experiences of war.  I am old enough to recollect the trenches before Sebastopol, and all that my countrymen and the English endured there.  Sometimes I endeavoured to think of this to distract me from what we ourselves endured.  But how different was it!  We had neither shelter nor support.  We had no weapons, nor any against whom to wield them.  We were cast out of our homes in the midst of our lives, in the midst of our occupations, and left there helpless, to gaze at each other, to blind our eyes trying to penetrate the darkness before us.  Could we have done anything, the oppression might have been less terrible—­but what was there that we could do?  Fortunately (though I do not deny that I felt each desertion) our band grew less and less every day.  Hour by hour some one stole away—­first one, then another, dispersing themselves among the villages near, in which many had friends.  The accounts which these men gave were, I afterwards learnt, of the most vague description.  Some talked of wonders they had seen, and were laughed at—­and some spread reports of internal division among us.  Not till long after did I know all the reports that went abroad.  It was said that there had been fighting in Semur, and that we were divided into two factions, one of which had gained the mastery, and driven the other out.  This was the story current in La Rochette, where they are always glad to hear anything to the discredit of the people of Semur; but no credence could have been given to it by those in authority, otherwise M. le Prefet, however indifferent to our interests, must necessarily have taken some steps for our relief.  Our entire separation from the world was indeed one of the strangest details of this terrible period.  Generally the diligence, though conveying on the whole few passengers, returned with two or three, at least, visitors or commercial persons, daily-and the latter class frequently arrived in carriages of their own; but during this period no stranger came to see our miserable plight.  We made shelter for ourselves under the branches of the few trees that grew in the uncultivated ground on either side of the road—­and a hasty erection, half tent half shed, was put up for a place to assemble in, or for those who were unable to bear the heat of the day or the occasional chills of the night.  But the most of us were too restless to seek repose, and could not bear to be out of sight of the city.  At any moment it seemed to us the gates might open, or some loophole be visible by which we might throw ourselves upon the darkness and vanquish it.  This was what we said to ourselves, forgetting how we shook and trembled whenever any contact had been possible with those who were within.  But one thing was certain, that though we feared, we could not turn our eyes from the place.  We slept leaning against a tree, or with our heads on our hands, and our faces toward Semur.  We took no count of day or night, but ate the morsel the women brought to us, and slept thus, not sleeping, when want or weariness overwhelmed us.  There was scarcely an hour in the day that some of the women did not come to ask what news.  They crept along the roads in twos and threes, and lingered for hours sitting by the way weeping, starting at every breath of wind.